


Fight or Fall

by burlesque_articulation



Category: Borderlands
Genre: content warning in the beginning note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burlesque_articulation/pseuds/burlesque_articulation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Icarus never had the option to fight his way out of his folly; but then, Rhys wasn't some myth, although he'd be damned if he didn't die a legend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight or Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Ooooh, summary so edgy I got a paper cut. But yeah it was because of this vent-write that I even got the idea for the project icarus au; however since I no longer care for the au, it's scrapped. 'cept this part of it 'cause I like this bit the most.
> 
> Content Warning: implied self-mutilation, colourful language, more salt than the Atlantic Ocean.

Was this really all there was? He went through all of that- that _utter bullshit,_ just for this to happen? He killed, what, how many people? And now he was going to die too, all just to finally rid the world of that bastard (hah)? No. Oh no, no. That was _not_ going to happen. Get that ‘poetic death’ bull _shit_ out of here.

Teeth clenched, the taste of his own blood prominent on his tongue, he forced his remaining eye open, the crash site of Helios blurring, but never quite coming into full focus. Grinding his teeth together, he used his one and only arm to at least roll himself onto his back. The indescribable pain made him gasp, panting as he laid there for minutes on end. His whole body ached terribly, but his shoulder burned the worst from where his cybernetic arm had been tore off, the circuits sparking as they still tried to send power through it, only to meet the open air. God, _**fucking** hell_. How much easier would it be just to close his eye again? Just lay back and let Pandora take his last breath too…

No. He couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t let that happen. He was done rolling over. His teeth cut into his bottom lip as he elbowed himself into a sitting position, a pained whine escaping his lips as tears pricked his eye. Why did this have to hurt so much? It was a stupid question, Rhys knew that, but he was still going to repeat it over, and over, and over again as he forced himself to his feet.

He cupped his exposed shoulder in his flesh hand, the circuits prickling his skin, but otherwise doing nothing else. With his depth perception out the window, he struggled to place himself in the wreckage. Eyeing over his shoulder he looked at the large, darkened screen. He knew where that was from. Taking that from that what he would, he placed himself somewhere near the heart of Helios. Which meant it could take hours for him to navigate his way out of the mess he’d created. All because Jack couldn’t play nice…

Not really. Rhys should’ve known from the start that Handsome Jack was an untrustworthy sack of shit. And yet, here Rhys was, picking his way through a mess that had made Jack ever-so-proud! Rhys spat onto the ground, saliva mixed with an unhealthy amount of blood (as if there were a healthy amount to be seen outside of one's own body) seeping into the dirt as he began his slow limp through the wreckage, eyes lazily dragging from one crippled metal scrap to another, his gaze only lingering on something of particular interest once. A bitter laugh, that came out as more of a twisted chuckle as he recognized the trophy shelf- of sorts -from the long-dead CEO’s office. Although it wasn’t the shelf itself that brought out the dark humour in him. It was the sight of the _Atlas_ deed. Sitting all pretty and inviting, just _**begging**_ for him to pick it up.

What was better then some bullshit ‘poetic death’, than an equally bullshit 'poetic revival’? How much in common did Atlas and Rhys have anyways? Got their shit handed to them on platter on Pandora? Check. Was torn down, face rubbed into the dirt by Hyperion (aka Handsome Jack))? Check. Forced to roll over and die with little to no alternative because of those combined forces? Well, can’t check that off anymore. Because they were about to rebuild from their collective ashes and make everything that had wronged them previously pay dearly. Maybe not this exact moment in time- but eventually. And Rhys didn’t care how- or what -he’d have to do to complete this goal.

Why though? Why bother take a chance on something long dead like Atlas? Spite. Pure _fucking_ spite. Rhys didn’t need Hyperion. He never did. And he would fucking prove it. Sure, he’d originally had some kind of half-baked idea of still taking over Hyperion- but now? Well, the idea of crushing Hyperion under his own fancy, _Atlas_ boot sounded much, much more pleasing, to say the least. And how much more enjoyable would it be to reboot that bastard’s AI just long enough to show him what had become of his precious Hyperion before completely wiping the prick off the face of Pandora once and for all?

Oh, it’d be really, _really_ enjoyable, he bet.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna talk/fight/got questions about this here au, my tumblr ask is always open: burlesque-articulation.tumblr.com


End file.
